His expression told the Princess that he was displeased with her. She had half expected it. Certainly she had helped concoct her grandson’s journey to Middelburg, but she had immediately thereafter been frightened and had allowed herself easily to be won by M. de Witt again to prudence—and William knew it.
Unfurling a black and glittering fan, she held it between her face and the fire, while she gave her grandson an anxious glance.
“You are angry with me, William,” she said plaintively. “You only came to see me because you wanted to scold me.”
The Prince still looked into the fire.
“Ah, me,” sighed Amalia of Solms, “I can never please you. You have no more devoted friend than I, and you do not repay me with the least regard or affection.”
The Prince answered now, in his soft voice and slow utterance—
“These reproaches, Madame, are foolish—it is I who have the grievance. Had you stood firm once I found myself in Middelburg I should find myself in a different position now.”
The Princess sat up with a helpless, appealing gesture, clasping her white hands over her heart.
“I did all I could—I solemnly notified to the Assembly that I had declared you of age—I wrote to Prince John Maurice begging him to join you——”